


Nightmare

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Stabbing, not canonically in the story, the character death happens in a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: i'm like eighty percent i wrote this because i was in a bad mood tbh i have nothing to say for  myself





	Nightmare

Virgil’s had nightmares for as long as he can remember. He’ll swear up and down to the others that he doesn’t dream, never has, probably never will, and technically speaking, this isn’t a lie. He doesn’t dream, he just suffers from his own self destructive mind while unconscious. Fitting in with the  _ real  _ light sides is always about finding the loopholes so they don’t kick him back to the dark hole he crawled out of.

Bearing this in mind, Virgil’s nights typically consist of one of three options—restless sleep without anything in his mind, unintentional all nighters that often turn into weeks without sleep, and nightmares. So many nightmares. It’s usually his fault when the last option occurs, because he didn’t push the light switch right on the fifteenth try, because he couldn’t tap his thumb and forefinger together exactly right, because his sleeve wasn’t quite long enough to reach his palm, which means his wrist was exposed, which means more of him was in contact with the air, which means more of him was vulnerable, which means that he was more likely to be in danger, which means he was less likely to survive the night, which means that his mind would supply endless nightmares to ensure that should he actually make it to the morning, he’d wish he never woke up to begin with.

That’s usually how it starts, anyway.

So when Virgil sees himself reaching out an arm to Roman, both of them wearing muted pinks and yellows, he knows it’s a nightmare. Doesn’t make it any easier to wake up, but he knows it’s a nightmare. He knows it’s a nightmare when Roman grimaces at the trembling hand, shriveling up into a white sheet pulled taught over shattered bones.

“Can I  _ help  _ you?” Roman snaps, batting the hand away. It vanishes as Virgil melts away, the dark abyss of sleep pleading with him to leave, but he can’t. “It’s about time you got out of here, you know. I never really wanted you here, it’s not like you belong, Ethan.”

“Virgil.”

“Right, right, Angel, sorry about that. You’ve just cycled through so many identities, trying to fit in with us.” Roman cackles, his adam’s apple bouncing from his throat to his forehead. Virgil can’t even bring himself to wince. The lump extends, turning into the hilt of a sword, turning into a devil’s horn, turning into thousands of laughing faces mocking Virgil as his eyes prick with hot tears. Still a nightmare. Still doesn’t make it any easier.

Roman draws the sword horn laughter thing from his forehead, yanking it out to reveal a handsome piece of metal, shining and sharp. “We don’t want you here,” Roman hisses, stabbing the sword through where Virgil’s heart should be. It doesn’t hurt, of course—Virgil is a soulless demon that never had a heart to begin with. His eyes lower to the weapon protruding from his chest, but nothing else happens. Looking back up to Roman, Virgil’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes lock on Roman’s lips, the skin bitten and torn off. He pokes his tongue around his own mouth, tasting copper and silver.

“I don’t want me here, either,” Virgil murmurs, turning from Roman. He steps off the stairs, falling down, down, down, into an empty black pit of nothing, which is almost comforting, until it’s not. It brightens to white, impossibly blinding and glowing until Virgil can’t even see his own dissipating limbs.

“So why are you here, then? If no one wants you, I mean.” Logan’s voice rings out, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, echoing enough to deafen and whispering enough to disappear. “It’s the most reasonable step, frankly, is to recede like you did before. Remember when you ducked out last time, and you caused all that havoc? That was all your fault, since you knew exactly what you were doing. Obviously something done with malevolent intent, so maybe you’ll put some more care into ridding us of vermin like you this time.” Logan’s voice is cold as stone, battering into Virgil like stones thrown from a skyscraper. His words are bullets, tearing through his body until there’s nothing left but the memory of a consciousness that no one wanted to begin with.

Finally, finally, Virgil stops falling. He lands before some pair of sensible shoes, attached to legs, attached to a torso, attached to nothing. Patton’s head floats above the body, his glasses catching the light just so, preventing Virgil from seeing beneath them. Patton is silent, not commenting on the rips and holes in Virgil’s hoodie, in his body. Virgil says nothing as Patton turns on his heel and leaves, without a word to the person that he swore was his best friend. That’s the funny thing, though, isn’t it? How easy it can be to lie when so many people are watching. How easy it is to swear by someone that needs you, then leave them like a dirty rag when you’ve had your fill and they’ve run out of purpose. Virgil’s served his purpose now, and quite obviously, Patton has had enough. Roman and Logan said as much—no one wants Virgil anymore, and Patton didn’t even have to say it. He already knew, and Virgil already knew, so why add insult to injury?

Doesn’t really matter anyway, since no one cares enough about Virgil to make sure the injuries are minimal. Least of all Virgil.

He doesn’t care about himself.

He  _ doesn’t. _

That’s his mantra, anyway, when he wakes up in the dead of night, alone in a darkened room with his blankets kicked to the foot of the bed. Virgil curls up on his side, hugging the cluster of blankets at his side. If he stretches his imagination far enough, he could almost pretend they were a person that wanted him there. Virgil doesn’t have much of an imagination, though, so he knows he’s alone, and he knows he’s just a pitiful pile of nothing holding onto fleece and threads that could never replace the real thing.

The real thing would never want him, anyway.


End file.
